It takes you three tries to flick open your lighter. Your hands are trembling, unsteady as all hell. All you can see is Kurt and Ram—bodies limp, curled on the muddy grass. Sure, they were fucking assholes. Did they deserve to die? Shit, probably. But you're not fucking God. You’re seventeen.

And yet the gun was in your hand. Jesus H. Christ.

Without thinking, you plunge your palm against the scalding end of the cig. The pain is bright, searing, and oh-so-welcome against the incessant whorl of gunshots and glass shattering in your head. JD seizes your wrist and shoves the end of his stick against your sizzling palm. It lights up, and he pulls back, licking his lips. Asshole.

"You wanted 'em dead." He husks, breaking the silence. His hands run calloused along your shoulder, car-windows fogging up with smoke. "Football season's over, sweets. Kurt and Ram had nothing to offer the school but date-rāpes and A.I.D.S. jokes."

He has the nerve to crack a sleazy little grin, arm slung around the back of your carseats, trenchcoat draped over the wife-beater he's still wearing. Shit, there's still brown smear along the hem. Whether it be dirt or dried blood, you don't know.